Vivian Evans and the Dark Lady
by Lilith the Queen
Summary: A dark night. An orphaned girl without a name. A mysterious woman with powers beyond imagining...
1. The Saga Begins...

The dark figure looked at the child in the crib

Warning: This story is radically different from most Harry Potter fanfics you've read. If you dislike the idea of people shaping their own destiny (as opposed to growing up solely to avenge the death of their parents), you will not enjoy this story. If you do not associate with anarchist wizards (as opposed to accepting as gospel everything that comes from a white-bearded old stoner's mouth), you will not enjoy this story. 

If, on the other hand, you like reading about smart and powerful women who do interesting things, you will like this story. And if you don't like Albus Dumbledore very much, you will REALLY like this story. Eventually. 

This story is about the Brezny Principle, which states this truism: "In a battle with two opposing sides, there is never a "good" side or a "bad" side. It is not like black and white; more like plaid and paisley. There is some beauty on each side, but some ugliness too." Wiser words have seldom been spoken. 

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The dark figure looked at the child in the crib. 

"Poor, poor thing. They didn't even name you, did they?" Lady Voldemort lifted up the sleeping baby girl. 

The girl opened her shockingly green eyes and yawned. "Gwah?" 

The Dark Lady kissed her forehead, traced a jagged line on it. "You will be safe from everyone," she whispered. "Only I know your true power. Only I can see your potential." 

She looked toward the living room, where the bodies of Lily and James Evans were lying on the floor, tangled around each other. "They wanted a boy," she muttered. "Honestly." 

"DROP YOUR WAND AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" came the sonorous, magic-enhanced voice of Peter Pettigrew. He, along with Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and (until a few minutes ago) James Evans, had been the Ministry of Magic's answer to an SAS squad. Which meant, basically, doing the highly dangerous stuff that nobody else had the guts or the equipment to do. Like taking on She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

Lady Voldemort sighed. She hadn't had to use a wand since she was seventeen. 

"Say goodbye to your parents," she whispered to the girl, showing her the mangled bodies of the red-headed woman and green-eyed man. 

The girl waved. "Bye-bye." 

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Remus glanced sideways at his lover, who seemed to be entirely too keen on the idea of mangling the Dark Lady. "Do we really have to kill her?" 

"She killed James and Lily," Sirius answered through gritted teeth. "She is going down." 

Peter jumped from on top of the roof, and spat something out on the pavement. Then he turned back into a human. "Here. I got this." 

Remus jumped back. "A gun? We're not allowed to use those. You know that." 

"Ask me if I give a fuck," Peter said. 

"Do you give a fuck?" Sirius asked. 

Peter gave him a withering look. "No. Here, take this." He threw a pistol to Remus, who caught it with an unsteady hand. 

"Magnum .44s," Sirius said. "All right!" 

Remus brandished the gun. "Peter, where did you get this?" 

"Stole it," Peter said, turning back into a rat. "I'll check out the house, see where she is. You guys go in." 

He scuttled in through the door. 

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Lady Voldemort's attention was diverted by a squeaking sound. A large gray rat sat on the table, cleaning its whiskers. 

The Lady smiled grimly. "It looks like your parents weren't exactly the best housekeepers," she said to the child. She produced a piece of bread from nowhere and tossed it to the rat. "Eat up, stupid thing." 

The rat sniffed the bread, then jumped off of the table. The Lady reached out lazily with her high-heeled shoe and stepped on its tail. 

It scrabbled vainly on the tile floor, trying to break free. Lady Voldemort smiled at it dreamily. 

"I believe the term for this is 'trapped like a rat'," she said. "Highly appropriate." 

She lifted it up by its tail, rotating it so that it could see her face. "You were spying on me, you bastard. Weren't you?" 

"Squeak." The rat gnashed its teeth. 

The Lady laughed, then bashed the rodent against a wall. It dropped into the corner and lay still. 

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Sirius checked the position of the moon in the sky. "It's been fifteen minutes," he said. "Peter hasn't come out." 

"That doesn't mean anything," Remus said. "He could just be…still looking for her or something." Even as he said the words, he felt a cold certainty that Peter Pettigrew was indeed dead. 

Sirius scrutinized the house. "Lights are off," he said. "I bet she's just waiting for us in there, like a snake in its den. Waiting for us to barge in and kill her." 

"If she's waiting for us to kill her," Remus reasoned, "then she's suicidal and she'll kill herself anyway, so there's no point in us going in. If she's waiting to kill us, then she is, in fact, going to kill us and we shouldn't go in." 

"Aren't you always the smart one?" muttered Sirius. "Get behind me, if you're so scared. Bring the gun. Magic doesn't work on guns." 

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With every homicide, a small amount of the killer's life energy disappears. The worse the killer feels about it, the more energy is drained. 

Lady Voldemort was pretty much amoral. She saw most other people as inferior to herself, either as obstacles that had to be removed or tools to shape her own fate with. 

Killing James and Lily had proved to be more difficult than she had originally thought. The Dark Lady had a slight weak spot for things like perfect love, and had originally found their romance touching. Then she had discovered the child… 

But she was still slightly drained. She didn't feel like fighting. 

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Sirius burst into the kitchen, his gun at the ready. "Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head!" 

Lady Voldemort was sitting at the table, with the Evans's daughter in her arms. 

She was a thin woman, with black hair pulled back in a professional bun, and mirrored sunglasses. She was wearing a white silk suit and plum-colored lipstick. Around her neck, she had a wispy black scarf held with a jeweled pin in the shape of a scorpion. 

Despite looking like a Mafia doña, she was holding the one-year-old in her arms and cooing to it like the most enraptured of young mothers. 

She looked up. "I don't have a weapon." 

"I told you this wasn't a good idea," Remus muttered. 

Sirius said nothing. His mouth was hanging open, and he had completely forgotten about the pistol he held. 

He saw why so many thousands of perfectly good witches and wizards had joined her cause. It was the amazing air of, well, _competence _she generated, as though she was doing exactly what needed to be done in the world. 

"My lady," he murmured. 

"Oh, gods." Remus slapped him in the face. "Sirius? _Sirius!_" 

The Lady rose, still holding the infant. "You were a friend of theirs?" she asked softly, referring to the dead bodies in the living room. 

Slack-jawed, Sirius nodded. 

Remus gritted his teeth. "Put the baby down." He aimed the pistol at her, praying that Peter had remembered to load it. 

"I will if you tell me her name," said the Lady. "What is her name? Is she Isabelle, or Rowena, or Elena? Or is she nothing at all, a child without a soul?" 

"Of course they were hoping for a boy," the Lady said. "They had his life all planned out. Everyone would dote on him. He would look up to his father's friends, idolize them. He would go to Hogwarts, play on the Quidditch team, maybe even be captain. Of course he would get into Gryffindor; not a corrupt bone in his body…He would marry a nice girl and get a job in the Ministry of Magic, have a few children for his parents to dote on in their declining years." 

"But the arrival of a daughter changed everything. Girls—especially with powers like these—are unpredictable." The Lady reached out a hand to caress the forehead of the black-haired child she held. 

"Let Sirius go," Remus snarled. 

The Lady looked up. "Honestly, haven't you heard a word I've said?" She laughed softly to herself. "Tell you what—I will let your friend go if you can tell me the name her parents gave her." 

Remus fired the pistol—once, twice, thrice. 

The bullets dropped to the floor. "Pathetic," observed the Lady. "Truly pathetic. Magic _does _work on guns, no matter what your boyfriend says." She flicked a hand in the general direction of the bullets. They rose from the floor, spinning. 

"These aren't silver," she added, "but I believe they will work. Three pieces of metal stuffed with gunpowder blowing out your brains is enough to kill even a werewolf." 

Remus dropped the gun and rolled across the floor as the bullets hummed millimeters over his head. He came up growling. 

The Lady stood up. "Ah? Reverting now, I see. Are you sure this will work?" 

The wolf leapt at her. She nimbly sidestepped. "If you're desperate enough to turn into a wolf when it isn't even full moon, I salute you." 

"I wonder," she added, "if you can keep your animal instincts from taking over long enough to refrain from eating the one you are supposed to protect." 

Remus stopped and looked at her. 

She took off her scarf and turned it into a makeshift bag, placed the little girl in it. "The child for your lover. A fair trade, do you think?" 

Remus took the carrier and ran like hell into the night. 

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Coming up next: Vernon Dursley has an affair and Aunt Petunia goes nuts. Enjoy! 


	2. Crash and Poetry

Author's note: This bit is based on real life. Make of it what you will. I read George Orwell and Gloria Steinem. I dislike authority and housewives. 

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"I'm home!" yelled Vernon Dursley, letting himself in the back door. 

His wife, Petunia, hurried up to him. "Where were you?" she asked. "It's gone 2 at night. Surely you aren't working that late?" 

Vernon plopped his briefcase on top of Petunia's needlepoint she had been working on all day. "I have something to tell you," he said. He felt a little guilty about what he was about to say—after all, Petunia had been a great wife. She was very loving, if a little bit batty. Her oddball brother's influence there…that "poetry" spell had lasted for three years, and still came back if she was feeling agitated. 

Petunia kissed him on the cheek. "Ooh, what is it?" she squealed. "Did you get a raise? Are we taking a trip to Spain?" 

"_Si_, _pero no con tu_," said a breathy voice behind Vernon. It belonged to a platinum blonde with coffee-colored skin, who was dressed in a short black dress. 

In Petunia's poetry-addled mind, she must have sensed something was wrong. But she repressed it, and treated her guest nicely, like a good girl, like a good housewife. 

"Can I get you some tea, Miss…" Her hands at her sides were fluttering like nervous pink spiders. 

Vernon put an arm around the blonde. "This is Azuela Puta. She is my secretary." 

"I'm very glad to meet you, Miss Puta," Petunia said. 

"I should not sink so," said Miss Puta. "I am zoon going to be Señora Azuela Dursley. Zis is what Vernon here has told to me." She planted a big sloppy kiss on her lover's cheek. 

"I can't take it any more," Vernon said darkly. "I come home and you don't have dinner ready. You're sitting in your chair, reading your stupid poems, and Dudley's crying because his mummy hasn't paid any attention to him…I'm leaving you, Petunia." 

Petunia stood with her mouth open. "Vernon, you can't! I love you…and you told me you loved me. I promise I'll change…I'll try to be a better wife, and have dinner ready, and not read poetry any more…" 

That was what she wanted to say. Instead, what came out of her astonished mouth was this: 

Love is like a red, red rose 

_Whose bloom may fade with time _

_But on the day we married _

_You told me you were mine _

_If you would just come back to me _

_I'd treat you like I should _

_I'd try to be a good wife _

_Do anything I could _

_Oh my darling, I don't know _

_How I could live without you _

_Please believe me _

Please don't leave me 

She clapped her hands over her traitor mouth, muffling the last words of the poem: "_Bphmph you nff if froo_!" 

Vernon shook his head. "You see what I mean?" He spread his great meaty hands helplessly. "I can't live like this." 

"He cannot leeve like zis," Azuela echoed. 

"You can't leave like this," Petunia murmured. 

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She stood in the driveway, twisting a dishcloth in her hands, staring into the distance. She hadn't done anything. She hadn't said anything. She never did. 

When a wolf came up to her and dropped a bundle at her feet, she picked it up. "Oh," she said faintly. "A girl." 

She carried the child into the house. "I've always wanted a girl." 

Little Dudley stood in the doorway, wearing Power Rangers boxer shorts. His face was set stubbornly. "I wah gandy." 

"Not now, darling." Petunia laid the baby on the table. "Ooh, isn't she a sweetie?" 

Dudley peeped at her over the chair. "No. Wah gandy now now NOW!" 

"No candy," Petunia said absently. "What's your name, sweet thing?" 

Dudley, realizing that he was not going to be noticed anytime soon, wandered off to the bathroom, where he immediately dumped out a large bottle of aspirin on the floor. 

Petunia cradled the one-year-old in her arms, and sang to her. 

_A wild animal left you here _

_So I would take you in _

_Now you are my newest child _

_And I will call you…_

She searched her brain for a name that rhymed with "in". "Lynn? Karen? No…" She closed her eyes and thought. She fell asleep there, at the table, with the unnamed baby girl in her arms. 

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Lady Voldemort brushed back the child's black bangs, revealing the lighting-bolt shaped sign of protection on her forehead. "Her name is Vivian," she whispered to the sleeping housewife. "It means life, and it rhymes with your poem. Take good care of her." 

Then she turned and walked out of the house, leading a big black dog on a silver chain. 

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That night, on the red-eye to Madrid, the airplane that a certain Vernon Dursley and his secretary, Azuela Puta, were traveling on, was hit by major turbulence, as recounted by one of the three survivors, a teacher named Esther. She only managed to survive by clinging to a huge sofa cushion that had been in the cargo hold. Her daughter Sonia and her husband were also perfectly safe, and only a little frightened. 

The pilot choked on an "omelet", and the co-pilot had a panic attack and started thinking he was a poodle. Three people tried to hijack the plane, and a stewardess had a fainting fit. The plane went down in the water. Most of the passengers drowned quickly and relatively painlessly. 

Vernon and Azuela were clinging to each other as the plane crashed down. Azuela tried to swim, and got sucked underwater by the suction of the plane. She was chopped to bits by a still-rotating propeller. Vernon tried to go after her and got stuck in a huge ball of flaming wreckage, burning him to a crisp. No trace of their bodies were ever found. 

That was the first piece of magic that Vivian Evans ever did. It would not be her last. 

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Amanita McMahon, the head of the Ministry of Magic, glared at the temp who had just woken her up in the middle of the night. "I was sleeping quite peacefully," she said icily. "For the first time in several weeks. What could possibly be so —ing important that it needs my immediate attention RIGHT NOW?" 

The temp quaked. "Er…She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead, madam. According to reports. I thought that might—" 

To her surprise, Amanita said a very bad word. The temp's hair began to sizzle. 

"I can't —ing believe it." Amanita sourly pulled on her dressing robe and took a swig from the unmarked bottle that always stood by her cot in her office. She slept in her office. It was rumored that she in fact had no home. "This is SO not good." 

The temp stared. "Madam, surely the death of I-Dare-Not-Say is a _good_ thing?" 

Amanita sighed. "You're a temp, aren't you?" She proffered the bottle to the temp, who recoiled slightly. "If you decide to stay here, I think that you find that things are slightly out of kilter." 

She sat cross-legged on her bed. "You see, good without evil is _nothing_. Good is the negation of evil, simply canceling out evil's effects. Evil can stand perfectly well on its own." 

The temp thought about that. It seemed to make sense. 

Amanita sighed. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, but the existence of Lady Voldemort is one of the reasons why the Ministry kept working. It is our duty to keep her in her position of power while seeing, at the same time, that she is hated by everyone. Sort of Orwellian, really. Miniluv, Minitrue, Minipax, Miniplenty, and Minimage." She took another swig from the bottle. "God have mercy on her soul." 

The temp fled. 

Amanita threw the bottle against the wall. It did not break. She hopped down from the bed and inspected the piece of parchment with the thaumaturgical readout on it. 

"Well, well, well." She smiled unpleasantly to herself. 


End file.
